Friday, November 16, 2018

Probed

I seem to have become a fascinating subject for various members of the medical profession of late. After Doctor Mike threatened me with the dreaded colonoscopy, I finally caved in and did the home colon cancer test. If you've never done it before, it's like a game of Beat the Clock meets Let's be Kids Who Play With Poop. Not to be too graphic, it involves using the toidy and then racing to finish your paperwork before the you-know-what slips under the water. Ick.

Well, I dropped off the bio-hazard at the doctor's office, making sure Dr. Mike knew I had done my duty (see what I did there?) so that I wouldn't need to have the dreaded colonoscopy. Of course I failed the test, and the process toward the colonoscopy had begun.

I have never had a colonoscopy before, but Trent has, and I knew that preparing for one isn't the most fun you'll have all year. Maybe that's why I wasn't eager to make an appointment. But those pesky people got right in touch with me to schedule the procedure. Sigh. Once again, foiled by efficiency. 

Let me say right here, for the record, and quite clearly, I wasn't afraid of the procedure itself. Heck, they give you some Valium-like medication to make the process much easier. It's the getting ready that stinks. It's the drinking glass after glass of laxative after not eating all day. And the griping pains and ickiness in the bathroom. And the vomiting. And then doing it again at four a.m. the day of the procedure. Seriously, there's got to be a better way. Like put me in the hospital, knock me out, clean me out, and then check me out. I know, what a whiner. Really, I was okay until the vomiting.

Luckily, the facility is close to home, so I managed the trip without losing my belly. Part of me was eager to meet the doctor, because his first name is Tamas, like my cousin. I figured he had to be Hungarian. Not only was he Hungarian, but born and raised not far from Budapest! Having some common ground to talk about lessened the stress quite a bit.

When I was wheeled into the procedure room, yet another person, the sedation nurse, quizzed me to make sure that I was of sound mind to make the decision to have the procedure. I knew that the doctor was at the foot of the bed even though I had taken off my glasses and couldn't see very well. I answered politely when asked my name and date of birth. When I was asked why I was here, my mouth, the smart-alecky one, blithely said (while I looked straight at the doctor whom I couldn't really see) that I was there because there was an alien who wanted to do some anal probing. Thank goodness they laughed, because you really don't want to irk someone who's about to put a camera up your backside.

When the nurse injected the happy juice, I said, "Oh, now that's nice!" And then someone said to give me more. I actually have one or two brief little memories of the procedure, but nothing traumatic, so don't let it scare you. And the worst thing post-procedure was the same as pre-procedure, vomiting. But there's a lovely injection for that. I went home feeling light and happy and delightful and wanting to sing and dance. I have apologized to my family and Brutus D. FatCat after coming down from this incredible high. They've been very forgiving because apparently I was quite entertaining.

It took a few days for the drugs to get out of my system, but I eventually got back to my version of normal. I received a phone call the other day telling me that the solitary polyp that was found, removed, and tested, would have become malignant eventually, but I'm clear of any problems. That was a great relief.

Do yourself a favor - if your doctor suggests a colonoscopy, please work up your courage and have one. Any discomfort is a small price to possibly save your life.



p.s. from The Lunatic: When I made my wisecracks about probing, my doctor started to mention some Hungarian scientists and I replied that I had heard that they went to Einstein to get someone to warn the US government about nuclear weapons development in Germany. The doctor then said that Einstein was once asked by reporters if he believed that any aliens had landed in the US. His reply was, "Yes. And they're both Hungarians!" 



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Thursday, October 4, 2018

Matters of the Heart

Some of you may not know why I've been away so long. In a nutshell, I've been feeling pretty awful for many months now. I have had progressively worse experiences with weakness, breaking a sweat, shaking...and all with minimal to no activity. What scared me the most was when I walked to the neighboring grocery store and almost didn't make it home. I found myself thinking that if I made it a few more steps, I could lean on a tree, railing, stop sign, you name it. When I was maybe 100 yards from my front door, I felt my body giving out on me as the world started to turn black. Luckily for me, a neighbor helped me into her car and blasted the air-conditioning until I recovered. Frankly, I haven't gone very far on foot since - it has felt too scary and too risky.

Since I have lupus, I've been assuming for quite a long time that it was the root of my problems. The f-word that I hate to use, a flare of the lupus, was probably what was making me so tired and weak and sweaty and sickly. I was pretty unhappy about it, but finally acknowledged that I had to suck it up and probably take some steroids so that I could feel better. When you don't have enough strength to shower and do anything else on the same day, something has to change.

So I saw Dr. Mike and told him that I was having a stinking flare and that I felt awful and I needed help. And then he stopped me in my tracks by telling me that it wasn't the lupus, it was my heart. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. They ran an EKG that showed nothing other than a fast heartbeat, and I was given a recommendation to see a cardiologist. Incidentally, I decided to have an upbeat, positive attitude, because I've only lived this long out of sheer meanness and a stubborn inability to give up.

I have to admit that I was a bit worried about going to see Dr. Claudia, though. I was worried about getting the usual medical sermonizing. Katrina, your heart isn't working well because you're too fat. You need to lose weight, Katrina. You have to give up sugar, salt, and fat. If anything tastes good, you can't have it. Only skim milk, and no butter. I imagined myself having an impassioned discussion with the doctor and telling her if I can't have butter, just kill me now, because margarine ain't no friend of mine.

Well, none of the feared lecturing happened. When I met with the doctor, she said she was fairly confident that I didn't have a  blockage because the blood flow to my limbs was good. My EKG was unremarkable, but my pulse was 120. Dr. Claudia said that when we hear hoof beats we look for horses, not zebras. So we started with me wearing a monitor for two days. There was nothing much of note on that, other than my pulse going as high as 167 with little to no activity. Then we did an echocardiogram, which was sort of fun for me, because I was able to watch my poor little valves opening and closing more than twice per second. 

The view of my heart showed a strong and healthy organ (and yes, I do in fact own a heart, so quit calling me a heartless whatever the heck). There were no signs of damage from the runaway heart rate, thank goodness, just the normal slight thickening that would be expected at my age. So with no answer, it was time to rule out the zebra, which would be an adrenal tumor. In some 30-odd years in the medical profession, Dr. Claudia has only seen or heard of three people with this problem. Strangely enough, the diagnosis is made through a 24 hour urine collection which looks for byproducts of excess Adrenalin. 

This test was negative too, so it was up to me to determine what action, if any, to take. I had been told on a previous visit that a cardiac surgeon would treat tachycardia (fast heartbeat) surgically. They would go in to the heart and kill off the areas that make the heart beat, and then install a pacemaker to make the heart able to beat at all. And since the heart can't beat if the pacemaker isn't there, you're screwed if the batteries run out. Or as I say, cancel Christmas. (Dr. Claudia says don't buy any green bananas.)

Trent asked my doctor why I was feeling so weak and tired all of the time, and she said it's pretty simple. It's like I'm running a marathon 24 hours a day. So now I'm taking a tiny pill twice a day, a beta blocker, to slow down my runaway train of a heart. Okay, it's not exactly like a runaway train, it's more like a car that you parked on one of those steep hills in San Francisco and you forgot to set the parking brake. Whoops! After only a few days on the medication, I'm having a bit less distress, and I'm looking forward to feeling more like my normal self soon. Hahahaha! I just said normal! Okay, my version of normal!

I hope this means that I am, in the words of Gene Autry, back in the saddle again!

XOXOXO,

The Lunatic
AKA Katrina





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Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Getting Back in Touch

I've decided that it's time for me to get back in touch with my inner Warrior Woman. (Alternative terms could include names like b/witch, but Warrior Woman just feels more powerful to me.)

I've mentioned in my now incredibly sporadic posts that I've been experiencing some health challenges lately. My fatigue, weakness, and shakiness have made simple tasks challenging. Seriously, there's nothing like breaking out in a sweat and getting all trembly and pukey when you're just trying to take a shower, for crying out loud! And poor Trent is still working on getting stronger after the knee problems have knocked him for a loop.

There have been some frightening moments with this weakness, including almost collapsing one day this spring on a walk home from our nearby supermarket. When I realized how much control my body was having over me, I decided I needed to go see my doctor, Dr. Mike. Damn lupus, was my thought. I'll need to take some Prednisone and get all emotionally unstable and constantly hungry, but at least I'll feel better.

So this Monday I did just that. I was concerned, because I had sort of mentioned my symptoms in passing, before they were occurring daily and before the almost-collapse. Mike attributed it to low blood sugar, which makes sense as the symptoms are quite similar. Before I told him my symptoms this week I informed him that it was not my blood sugar; I have tested it numerous times during these episodes and it's been normal. And just when I was expecting him to tell me it was time for steroids, he pulled a fast one on me. He said he was pretty sure it was my heart.

After said heart relocated from where it dropped into my bowels, I remembered what I had been saying and thinking for quite a while, that I hoped it was just a lupus flare and not something serious like my heart. An EKG at the office didn't show anything other than a fast heartbeat, so I'll be seeing a cardiologist in mid-August.

The good news is that the things he suspects may be wrong are fairly easily addressed, one with medications, and the other with inserting a stent through a small incision in the groin. In professional medical parlance, I believe it is referred to as a little cut near the hoo-hah. Bwahahaha!

I'll admit that it sort of hit me in the face, but I didn't fall apart. I had some water built up in my eyes, but none running down my face. I was feeling - I'm not sure what I was feeling. I still had the ability to make silly jokes and such, but have been thoughtful. Yesterday, as we drove to Trent's appointment with an arthritis specialist, I said, "It's time for me to get in touch with my inner bitch."

You see, that's how I've survived this long. When I was told at age 29 that I had an incurable autoimmune disease that was actively trying to destroy my kidneys, I did cry a bit. It was a shock. And then when I read in a book that someone kindly checked out for me from our local library that my expected life span was at least ten years, unless my kidneys were affected, I got mad. 

On my first visit to my doctor's office after my hospitalization and diagnosis, I was in a room having blood drawn when Dr. Mike walked by. He leaned his head back to look into the room and asked me how I was doing. When I responded that I felt like crap, he said, no, how was I doing? I quite honestly told him that I was pissed off and he said, "Good, you'll get better."

I think I may have been too angry to allow myself to fall apart for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Since my diagnosis came just before Christmas, the holiday gatherings came with lots of questions and explanations. I didn't go to many family events, though, it was generally too exhausting. One very clear memory is of one of my cousins saying how sorry she was for what I was going through. Without thinking, I told her not to waste her time feeling sorry for me unless I gave up. And if I gave up, instead of feeling sorry for me, she should give me a kick in the backside. Actually, I used the word ass, if the truth be told.

My reaction to the ten-year life expectancy was equally angry. I said screw this and quit reading things that filled me with negativity. I decided that if I was living on a ten-year plan, everything after ten years was gravy. This December I will hit my 30-year mark. There have been struggles, but I often say I'm too mean for lupus to knock me completely down. And if I can handle all of that, I can handle a little problem with my heart. To say nothing of the fact that having a problem with my heart at least proves that I have one.

Warrior Woman program loading in 10, 9, 8...



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Saturday, May 19, 2018

New Heroes

It's been such a long time that I've wondered if I should even start writing again. We've been experiencing some challenges at the home of The Lunatic. After Trent's surgery, he developed a bad case of sciatica. This apparently aggravated his arthritic knees, leaving him unsteady on his legs. Add to that a couple of minor fractures in his ankle, and it's just not been a great deal of fun.

Of course, it gets to be even more of a party when my lupus and fibromyalgia are thrown into the mix. I don't drive (a long story for another time), but one of our favorite supermarkets is right behind our apartment complex. Instead of putting Trent through the pain and struggle of getting to and from the car and driving me there, I just started walking there a couple of times a week, getting just enough things to be able to carry them home in my reusable grocery bags.

A few weeks ago, I started to notice a lot of weakness with any exertion on my part. Trent would drive me to the market and by the time I carried in the groceries, I was completely out of strength. I'm talking about breaking out in a sweat and unable to stand any more. A few weeks ago, it actually got a bit scary. I knew I needed to pick up a few things at the store and wasn't feeling very strong, but set out on my trip anyway, promising Trent and myself that I'd try to walk slowly (har-har) and not overdo. Well, before I finished at the store, I felt my strength slipping away from me.

Being the stubborn idiot that I am, I soldiered on. After all, I had ice cream among my purchases, and you have to protect the Ben and Jerry's from melting. Well, I had barely made it the side of the building before I had to stop and rest. It became a series of small goals - walk to the tree and lean on it while you rest. I would gladly have sunk down on the cool grass but my knees are so bad I probably wouldn't have been able to get back up by myself. From the tree to the railing in the shade by one of the buildings. A bit more to lean on a stop sign. I saw a woman walking to her car and thought maybe I'd call to her for help, but she was in the other direction from where I was headed.

Another little distance to the handicapped parking sign, about twenty yards from the front of our building. I was at my limit. As I leaned on the pole, I devised a plan. I would sit down on the curb (I wasn't going to be standing any longer as the lights were going dim preparatory to me passing out) and rest. When I felt better, I would call the leasing office and ask them to send someone over to help me get back up so I could get home. And then a car drove up and a voice said, "Do you need help?"

Those words can be like the songs of angels when you're really struggling. Jackie, the woman I had spotted getting into her car, and her son Kaden, helped me. I was helped into the car and the AC was turned up. After a few minutes, the head-to-toe sweat I had broken out in was fading, and I was weak but no longer dizzy. Jackie held my arm as I walked to the front door. I had been rescued. 

When someone takes the time and effort to help another person who is not doing well, they become a hero. Jackie may have only fallen a few minutes behind on her schedule, but her actions were so important to me. She's also leading and teaching her young son by example. Instead of averting their heads and trying not to see others and their problems, they gladly became involved. My faith in humanity continues to grow when fed by moments such as these.

Today has been another challenging day. I needed to go to a couple of stores, and I wasn't thrilled about it. Not just because it's Saturday and I despise going to the grocery on such a busy day, but because of my low energy levels. While I was at store number one, I felt the energy starting to drain away. I sat down for several minutes to rest before going to the checkout lane. Yes, the head-to-toe sweat, I'm-running-out-of-gas business kicked into high gear. I made it out to the car safely and told Trent I'd have to rest a bit before the next store. I could have just had him take me home, but I wasn't about to miss out on the one-day sale on butter! (I know you're probably shaking your head at my lunacy right now; I did as I was typing it!)

Well, I got through the second store on sheer stubbornness and we made it home. By the time I made the second trip into the house (with my fully-loaded reusable bags), I was sort of a wreck. I'd take one or two things out of a bag, put them in the fridge, and collapse onto a chair to rest. It took a while, but I managed to get everything that needed to be chilled or frozen in its proper location. There are some canned goods sitting in a bag on the dining room floor, but I do not care.

After we rested a while, I checked on Brutus D. Fatcat, my sister's feline. Yes, I succumbed to his obvious request for treats. When I was filling his water bowl, I heard my phone ring, but my hands were occupied, and it wasn't my sister's ringtone, so I ignored it. Just after I saw that it was an unfamiliar number, my phone told me I had a voicemail. And that's when my day got interesting.

A very pleasant female voice told me that she was looking for a woman who had the same last name as Trent and was wondering if she was related and if we could help find this woman she had known years ago. I couldn't just ignore her message because I didn't know the Collins that she was trying to locate. I called this lovely person in New York and gave her a few suggestions on how to find her long-lost friend. During the conversation, I learned that Sarah, the person being sought, had adopted three children. Peggy, who was searching for Sarah, told me that her husband had been the children's pediatrician. I also learned that Sarah and her husband wanted to adopt a child and Peggy said, "How about three?" And Sarah and her husband adopted all three children that Peggy helped them find. 

After I told Peggy that I would love to hear how her search progressed and we ended our call, I searched for Sarah and the city in which she lived. Sadly, what I found was her obituary from February of 2016. Back on the phone I went, letting Peggy know what I had found. We spoke for a few more minutes, and I found myself another hero. Peggy and her husband had adopted six hard-to-place children, some with disabilities. She and her husband helped found an organization that works to find families for children in the foster-care system. Many of these children are hard to place in homes because of disabilities or their age. They also did a great deal of work to improve adoption laws across the country.

As for Sarah, she was a highly respected professor in the College of Liberal Arts at Rochester Institute of Technology. She served on numerous boards including the College of Liberal Arts Advisory Board (after her retirement), Planned Parenthood, art centers, libraries, schools of music and dance, and more. Her obituary mentioned that memorial donations could be made to Friends of Eastman Opera at Eastman School of Music. 

I am thrilled to have received what some might consider a wrong-number call today. It allowed me to learn about two amazing women, my new heroes. Thanks for inspiring me with who you are and what you have done, Professor Sarah Jo Huff Collins of the Rochester Institute of Technology, and Peggy Soule of CAP, Children Awaiting Parents. I'm so happy to have had your lives touch mine, as many people undoubtedly have before me.



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Saturday, January 27, 2018

Stitched

With Trent's gracious consent, I am going to fill you in on his skin cancer surgery. As you know, anyone can experience skin cancer. When many of us were younger, sunscreen wasn't really much of a thing. I remember tv commercials for suntan lotions to help achieve a bronze glow. I also remember people slathering themselves with baby oil trying to develop a nutty brown skin. What I don't remember as a child is hearing about sun protection. Nowadays we hear about the aging and cancer and other problems associated with the benign neglect, or even outright abuse, experienced by our skin. I shudder at the memory of the many blistering sunburns of my childhood and youth. 

Trent has a double whammy as far as his risk for skin cancers. He was a lifeguard and aquatics director for many years, and had plenty of sun exposure. Another factor is being a transplant patient. Because the immune system is suppressed post-transplant to prevent organ rejection, a transplant recipient has less ability to fight off all sorts of diseases. We often joke that Trent could catch a cold from across the street, but it's sort of true. Unfortunately, one of the disease types that can often occur in transplant recipients is cancers.

In the hospital transplant program of which Trent is a patient, patients routinely have skin cancer assessments once or twice a year. When we go, Doctor Theresa usually finds several pre-cancerous spots that she freezes off with liquid nitrogen. There are also often spots that need to be biopsied. Trent's right ear has had a recurring issue, and the biopsy in late November showed skin cancer. A surgical procedure was scheduled for Monday, December 18th. He's had this procedure two other times on different areas of his face, so we felt like we knew what to expect.

The procedure is named Mohs, after Frederic E. Mohs, the surgeon who created the technique in 1938. In my opinion, it's a brilliantly simple but effective technique. The cure rate is generally above 95%. The procedure goes like this: the patient is given a local anesthetic, along with Valium if desired. A thin layer of affected skin, and underlying tissue, if necessary, is removed. The surrounding margin is very small so that no more skin is removed than absolutely necessary. While the patient is in a waiting area with family and/or friends, the excised skin is marked for its orientation on the skin - top, bottom, right, left - and sent to the lab. If there are cancer cells on any of the edges, the process is repeated. In Trent's previous Mohs surgeries, one time he was called back once, and another time he was called back twice. This time around, they cut five times before they got it all. 

When Trent's ear was finally stitched up, they let me in the room so that I could see it before it was bandaged. I must say that I was totally unprepared. At first glance, it looked like Trent was laying there with a major chunk of his ear gone. Do this for me, please, so you'll know what I'm talking about. If you hold your finger parallel to the floor with the fingertip touching the entrance to the tunnel that directs sounds, your finger will be covering the area on the outside edge of the ear where Trent's cancer was removed. 

Since a goodish amount of skin was removed, something had to be done to protect the ear and keep blood flow going to the edge of his outer ear. Now take that finger and feel the crease behind your ear where the cup of your ear meets up with your noggin. The doctors cut down that line and pulled the skin over the outer curve of his ear, so his ear was sort of tucked under a flap of skin from the head/neck. There were quite a few stitches, and he was bandaged up and sent home with instructions to do nothing to the ear except come back in a couple of days.

Needless to say, Trent started having pain and discomfort fairly soon, and we were relieved not to have to irritate the ear by re-bandaging the area. When we went back for wound care, I had to get a lesson in how to do the special dressing of the area. Not only did it need to be cleaned and kept moist with petroleum jelly, there was a tunnel of sorts behind his ear where the skin had been lifted and moved. This had to be treated as well so that the skin didn't grow shut, making the reversal difficult. The treatment included threading a strip of cloth pre-treated with a petroleum jelly based ointment through this tunnel.

I've done post-surgery wound care for more than 20 surgeries for Trent. I've dealt with back surgeries and transplants and all kinds of stuff. In other words, it wasn't my first rodeo, but that threading the strip through the tunnel step was something that filled me with dread. The time came for me to change the dressing for the first time. I removed the dressing and the cloth strip. I mixed baby shampoo with water for cleansing with cotton swabs. I carefully cleaned the areas around all of the stitches and covered the incision with petroleum jelly. I swabbed extra on the cloth strip per the nurse's advice and wrapped it around the edge of the swab to thread it through the half-skinned tunnel. And hit a roadblock. Yes, the strip went nowhere. I broke out in a hot, burning sweat from the stress. I just couldn't get it in there. To at least do something, I tucked one end in the top and the other in the bottom, but it was pretty pathetic. I made sure that there was plenty of ointment there and we went back to the hospital a few days later.  

I was a nervous wreck. Not only was Trent in pain, pain which increased when I tried to dress his wound, but I wasn't even doing a good job. I didn't even want to go back to the treatment room, telling Trent that I was going to be fired by the nurses. The nurses, angels of mercy that they are, were very kind and said that I had done well enough that they would be glad to hire me to bandage their patients. Then they gave me magical swabs, long ones on wooden sticks and with cotton only on one end. The next time I changed the dressing it took me about five seconds to get the strip in place. What a relief.

About ten days after the surgery, we went for something that the doctors and nurses referred to as a takedown. We had no clue what to expect. In a nutshell, since I've talked so much my fingers are getting tired, the skin was cut at the outer edge of the ear. The stitches in the cup of the ear were removed and more stitches placed where the newest incisions were made. Then the neck/head skin was stretched back to where it originally came from, although there was now less of it than before, and sewn back into the crease behind the ear, along with stitches in an incision about an inch long going into the hair behind the upper part of the ear.

All in all Trent has probably had a good one hundred or more stitches go in and out of his ear and scalp. All of the stitches are gone now, but there's still an area about an inch long and maybe a quarter of an inch wide that needs to grow some skin. It still needs to be treated and bandaged daily, but we're both relieved that the tunnel is gone. So after 40 days, a couple of courses of painkillers, and a few courses of antibiotics, we're hoping for the healing to be complete soon. Trent, who tends to sleep on his left side, is looking forward sleeping on his right side again. His body is aching from always sleeping in the same position. And me? I'll just be glad when it's not hurting any more. His ear might end up looking like he defended my honor in a bar fight (my suggested story if anyone asks what happened to his ear, because it's a bit more polite than saying none of your d--- business), but I won't have to be causing him more pain.

So, now that you know that there are some great procedures related to skin cancer removal, I hope that none of us have to experience them. Sure, it's not the most horrible procedure you might ever experience, but it's not necessarily a picnic with a big bowl of potato salad either. Which brings me back to something I mentioned in my last post. Take care of your skin. This amazing envelope your body is in is the only one you get. Wear sunscreen. Hats and umbrellas are your friends. And don't be scared to have weird things on your skin checked out. Lots of them can easily be frozen in the doctors office, followed by short-term pain like those sunburns from days of summers past. No big deal. Be well, friends!



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Saturday, January 13, 2018

Roundup

I know, I can't believe it either. My second post in less than a week! I know I've let my readers down, and I certainly am grateful to have such wonderful people who are willing to put up with me when the blog goes on the back burner. You know the one I mean, the one that you can barely reach, but it doesn't matter much anyway because the heating element doesn't always work. But I'm rooting through my toolbox like The Lunatic that I am, trying to turn up the heat.

Well, everyone, we made it through the holidays. Trent and I really enjoy Thanksgiving (we roasted a turkey and had a quiet and delicious feast) and Christmas. All my life, I've loved any opportunity to give others gifts. Unfortunately ee seem to have something we refer to as a Christmas Curse. I know that some of my friends have this same ailment. Invariably, when the season of gifting rolls around, we find ourselves with a huge desire to spread gifts and goodwill, but without the means to do so. There are worse problems to have, so I'll live and learn from the Christmas Curse.  

This holiday season held a few challenges as well as a few triumphs. Through a combination of luck and ingenuity, we managed to find gifts for those we really hoped to, and did so before Thanksgiving had rolled around. In fact, one of the gifts ended up being such a hit that the recipient almost turned into an excited five year old. I'm being purposely vague because I think I'd like to write about that in another installment of my Ravings.

One of the really difficult things about this holiday season was that it was the first without our friend Thayne, who left us behind so suddenly last September. Our holidays have been intertwined with Thayne and Marie for a number of years, and it felt strange without him. 

To add to the excitement of the season, Trent had to go through two surgical procedures within eight days. After the effects of many years of Prednisone and other anti-rejection medications on Trent's teeth, he had to go through oral surgery on the 11th of December. One week later, he was having skin cancer surgery on his ear. Needless to say, we've had quite a few dentist, surgeon, and nurse appointments. Trent has had to deal with a lot of discomfort - okay, pain, and some has been inflicted by me while doing wound care. We have a visit coming next week which should see the final removal of stitches - well over fifty of them. I'll leave it at that vague description until I get his consent to go into more detail.

Liz, who was in the process of her divorce last Christmas season, spent this Christmas season in the company of a new companion. She probably would have expired from boredom if she'd had to rely solely on us for entertainment this season. To borrow from the old-time Timex commercials, we keep on ticking. We have each other, a home, and plenty to eat. Actually, I've been trying to eat less to better manage my blood sugar, and even managed to continue my weight loss over the holidays. Dr. Mike says that on average, most people gain about 7 pounds over the holiday season. I managed to add about that much to my weight loss over the same time period, so maybe I'm starting to get on the right track.

Well, I sure have rambled on in this post. Please forgive me. I've also thought of several possible posts I'd like to write while I've been tapping away at the keyboard. Wish me well, please, as I'd like to give you a lot more to read this year than I did during the last. Let's hope for the best, shall we?

I hope that you're all content with what is going on in your corners of the world. My hopes for all of us in this and every year are basically the same. I wish us all peace, health, love, and the good fortune of having enough. What else could we ask for, really? We don't need vast amounts of money to survive, although sometimes it feels that way. What we need more are the things all the riches in the world can't buy. I hope they'll be overflowing for all of us.


A note from The Lunatic: I don't want to be a nag, but I will anyway. For your skin's sake, please consider wearing sunscreen or a hat. Or both. Be well, my friends!


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Thank you for reading!

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Privilege

I almost never get asked to show my receipt at Walmart. I kept this observation to myself for quite a while, thinking that surely I was mistaken. But time after time, it proved to be true. One day I mentioned it to Trent, and he started noticing it as well. I began to change my habits on leaving the store. Instead of stuffing the receipt into my purse or one of my shopping bags, I began to carry it in my hand until we left the store. Still no takers.

I became obsessed. I progressed from simply carrying the receipt to sort of flashing or waving it at the staff member working as Greeter and/or Checker of Receipts and Bags. Still no takers, in spite of the fact that on more than one occasion I had seen the same individuals diligently checking the receipts and carts of other customers who were leaving as we arrived at the store.

I became more bold, bordering on aggressive. As Trent pushed the cart toward the exit door, I would ask the Greeter if they needed to see my receipt. They assured me that no, it wasn't necessary as long as everything I had was in bags. They only needed to look at my receipt if I had non-bagged merchandise in my cart. 

Every time this happened, my heart broke a little, and my anger simmered a little more. Why? Am I a fan of being asked to prove that I purchased everything in my cart? Isn't it enough to have that happen when I buy things at a membership warehouse? Trent, who is in agreement with my feelings on this subject, knows better. It's because I know why it happens. 

You see, I've carefully watched, at stores of all types, the ways people of all descriptions are treated. As I said to Trent when this really started to bother me, unequal treatment exists. In fact, it thrives. On one of the first days this was driven into my consciousness, we were entering the store as a young Asian woman and her children were leaving the store. She had been stopped and asked to provide her receipt. The receipt and the contents of her bags were scrutinized. And no, to the best of my knowledge, there was nothing in her cart that wasn't bagged.

As we left the store, I told Trent how awful it makes me feel to know the unspoken preferential treatment I am given. As I said in that parking lot, they aren't letting me walk on by because everything we bought has been bagged. And it's not because I'm fat and old mature and probably can't run very fast with or without stolen goods. It's because I'm fat, old, and white. And it sickens me.

As much as I hate to jump on bandwagon-type phrases, I have to use this one. White privilege exists and is thriving in the USA. Don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware of how fortunate I am to not be a target of numerous types of judgement and scrutiny based on things like my age. I was once, in my much younger years, accused of stealing from a music store. It was degrading, frightening, and depressing. But I'll never know the fear that must accompany millions of people of color or of other belief systems, individuals both young and mature, every time they go to a store. 

If you look up the word privilege in a dictionary, as I did while preparing to write this piece, you'll see that it is a special right, advantage, or immunity that is only available to a particular person or group of people. I am being given preferential treatment that I have done absolutely nothing special to earn or deserve.  I was simply born looking a certain way. My Eastern European ancestry gave me my blue eyes and my medium-brown hair and my lightly-pigmented complexion. I haven't cured any diseases or written anything fabulous or created world peace, although I long for it every day. I'm just a person, as is everyone who reads (or doesn't read) these words. 

Like everyone else, I was born with the potential to be a healer, a killer, a writer, a reader, a friend, an enemy, or any number of other things. And I could also be a shoplifter or someone who is pretty darn honest when she shops. I just want to be treated like everyone else. I want everyone to enjoy the same privileges I definitely don't take for granted. The privilege I want to see in abundance is a simple one, one that I try to employ in my interactions with others every day. It's about being mindful of human dignity and worth, something that people of every description deserve.

See others not with your eyes, but with your heart.


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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic